Page 39 of Scaredy Cat
Don’t confuse obsession with affection,Madison had scolded me only a few days ago.
Is that what I’m doing? Am I so desperate for any kind of positive attention that I’m willing to settle for anything that brings me pleasure? Or are my standards just so low that even a man with a knife who cut my thigh can get on my good side just by uttering a few sweet words and being really good with his fingers?
God, I’m pathetic.
Absently, I run my hands up my thigh to pull my shorts up over where he cut me. The wound is small and so minor that I can barely feel the rough brush of a scab beneath my fingertip. Though I keep going, still dragging my shorts up higher, so the mottled red and purple of the hickey on my inner thigh comes into view.
Nowthat’ssomething to look at. I can see the marks from his teeth where he bit down, and I trace the outline with my fingernail. It’s like a watercolor painting on my too pale skin that stretches up almost to where my thigh meets my pelvis, and for just a few seconds I let myself marvel at the sight as my finger traces it with rapt attention.
If it were somewhere more visible, I’m sure Brynn would be asking what kind of wild animal tried to gnaw my leg off. Suddenly, I’m glad that no one else can see it. I don’t want the mocking, however lighthearted, and I don’t want to have to explain it to anyone else. The mark ismine, and it’s only for me to look at.
Though I don’t know why I’m being possessive over a bruise.
“Pathetic,” I sing to myself. Pushing to my feet, I hover near my desk, shifting from one foot to the other. I really could takethe time to be productive now. My fingers flex, and belatedly I realize I forgot my phone near my bed.
Fuck it.I’ll work after I’ve drowned myself in the shower. That’s enough to convince me, and within seconds I’m in my bathroom with the water heating up and my clothes in a pile on the floor.
It’s difficult not to look at the bruise in the mirror, or to just brush my teeth without staring at it myself, as if I can see the invisible marks where his fingers, tongue, and teeth showered me with affectionate attention. But I distract myself by pawing through my drawers with one hand to look for eyeliner I haven’t seen in months. With my luck, the bathroom cabinet ate it; taking it as tribute to leave me without in my time of need. I could stop being so stubborn and buy more, I suppose, instead of awkwardly trying to make my eyeshadow work half as well to give me the look I want.
When I don’t find it again, I close the drawer and spit toothpaste into the sink. I take a few seconds to rinse off my brush, and when I finally step under the hot water, my shoulders immediately drop with relaxed relief.
It’s quickly obvious, however, that I’m too restless to enjoy this, either. Just like I hadn’t been able to sleep in, I can’t let myself lean against the wall of the shower for very long and drift. My hands come up to my shoulders, and I press against the stiff knots in the back of my neck that have been getting worse for at least a year. This Halloween, my neck and shoulders hurt worse than they ever have before, leaving me feeling three times my age and like I might crumble into dirt at any second.
With thoughts of falling apart like an old corpse, I finish my shower more quickly than I’d intended. Nothing seems to be working to slow me down today, though I know it’s the leftover restlessness and excitement from last night. God, I need help.
And the cops.
I should’ve called the cops already.
I have so many things to use as evidence against him. So many ways I could report my stalker. He’s cornered me, threatened me, assaulted me with a weapon…he’s broken into my house and maybe stolen from me. Even if they don’t believe me the first time, I could have a report created, in case there is a next time.
I know all of that, and my brain lectures me to do it in Madison’s voice, but somehow it never really becomes a priority. I can never actually convince myself to get in my car and drive to the police station to report it.
Finally I snag my phone and plop down in my chair with a huff. I’m sort of looking forward to writing my post on Mill House, given that I actually managed to take some good pictures there last night. I have ideas and phrases I know I want to use in my blog entry, and I’m excited to do something that’s a little different than my usual talk about movies or haunts or games.
The excitement lasts all of ten seconds, and I can feel my smile fade as I scroll through the new comments on my blog. The fact that I don’t recognizeanyof the usernames, and that they’re mostlyGuestwith a number after them tells me that they aren’t following me, and after reading the first one, I’m considering turning off all technology for the day.
Is she Scaredy Cat because she’s too scared of @Miscreant Manor to go???
You saw what @Miscreant Manor said about her, right??? I’m not the only one wondering why she’s not going there instead of Park Scream yet again?
Do you only go to the same haunts every year because you know they can’t scare you?
The comments go on, and my fingers itch to correct the misconceptions and false claims about me. My enthusiasm sours at the back of my throat, and out of curiosity, I go to MiscreantManor’s social media pages, wondering if this onslaught of unwanted attention and insults is just a coincidence.
Unpredictably, my eyes quickly land on the newest post, which is an unflattering screen grab of me from theSquad Ghoulslivestream. There are illustrated cat ears and whiskers on my face, and from this angle, my front teeth look crooked, my eyes stupidly half-closed mid-blink. But it’s the title that makes me stop and stare, though I have to read it a few times to really let it sink in.
COME VISIT MISCREANT MANOR AND PROVE YOU’VE GOT MORE COURAGE THAN THE ‘SCAREDY CAT’ WHO COULDN’T EVEN HANDLE HEARING ABOUT US ON THE SQUAD GHOULS LIVESTREAM.
That’s not exactly promising, but I still click on the post, wanting to see exactly what it is they’ve said about me, if anything. Though within a few lines of reading it, I have to swallow back the sour taste in my throat once more as my shoulders thump back against my gaming chair.
This isstupid,I tell myself, clicking away from their page and leaning back to gaze up at the ceiling. I rock myself in the chair over and over with one foot on the floor, the other curled up under me. Technically, they haven’t really said anything new. I’m a coward, a chicken, a fake. I’m just getting paid by places to review them well.
This year, however, it seemsSquad Ghoulshas joined in after our shared livestream. A quote from them—fromBlake—feels burned in my head now that I’ve read it, and won’t disappear from behind my eyes.
You know, I just think people see her as something more than she is. She’s not really that great, or that entertaining. Kind of boring for the camera. Feels like she just got lucky and appeals to, uh, a demographic the rest of us wouldn’t bother with.
That feels more like my followers are being degraded, but there’s nothing I can do. I won’t remark on the post, or reply to any of the comments. Drawing attention to the fact I’ve seen the post won’t do anything good, I remind myself.
